‘Twenty-first-century Robin Hood.’
‘In his head, I’m sure that’s how he saw it. But the malware was more corrosive than he realised. It started to eat its way through entire systems, so Conor pulled back.’
‘He told you all this that night?’
‘Yeah. I mean, at this point, I was still sympathetic. Conor’s always been so passionate about the 99 per cent and the 1 per cent. The world’s a mess, right? We all know that. He felt it so strongly. Sometimes idealism like that clouds your judgement. So, I thought I’d give him a break.’
‘This is where the “but” comes in.’
‘He wasn’t upset at all for being involved or for starting it! Zero remorse. OK, he was hitting a bank, but regardless of what he said, this wasn’t a victimless crime. That was regular people’s money, stolen from their accounts. If you’re living hand to mouth, you don’t have time to wait for a bank to sort out the chaos and refund you. You suffer. You starve. You get thrown out of your home. But Conor didn’t seem to get that. He was more focused on the bigger picture. And once I realised that none of that stuff mattered to him—’
‘You blew up. I’ve seen that temper. Scary.’
Kaitlin sagged. She regretted getting so angry. The things she said, the words she couldn’t ever take back, their last conversation playing out night after night in her head, keeping her awake, overshadowing every good memory she’d ever had of her beloved twin.
‘Babe,’ Amelia murmured.
Amelia could see the hurt in Kaitlin’s eyes, of course she could. Every time that night surfaced in her mind, Kaitlin thought she might fall apart.
‘I said some terrible things,’ she breathed. ‘And I blamed Thomas. Really went for him. And that upset Conor even more. He stormed out, I brooded. Refused to call him, like some … like some stupid, whiny brat. The next thing I know, Mom is telling me he’s flown to London to get away from everything.’
To get away from me.
‘And still I didn’t call him. What a bitch. What a fucking horrible bitch. Too proud. Too … too arrogant.’ She choked back a juddering sob. ‘And then he got on Flight 702 and that … was that.’
The silence seemed to surround them and Kaitlin felt she might drown in it. Finally, Amelia spoke.
‘I’m so sorry, hun.’
Kaitlin scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes.
‘It’s all so insane,’ Amelia sighed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
Kaitlin shrugged. ‘I couldn’t … still can’t … process it.’ She swallowed her sadness and kindled the defiance that had carried her through so much. ‘I’m going to find out what really happened to that plane,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘If there’s been a cover-up, I’ll do whatever it takes to bring it into the light.’
‘Babe,’ Amelia said, worried.
Kaitlin flashed back to that feeling of plunging down a never-ending well when she’d first heard Atlantic Airlines Flight 702 had vanished midway between London and New York with her brother, Conor, on board. At first there had been that debilitating feeling of queasy shock, then disbelief. She remembered those long days and sleepless nights at JFK with their mother and father, surrounded by other desperate families, all of them hoping, waiting for news – any news.
Conor was gone, there could be no doubt of that. Deep down, Kaitlin knew that it was futile to hold on to any hope that her brother and the other passengers of Flight 702 were still alive. And yet, Conor wasn’t gone. He lived on in her head in among all the maybes and the what ifs. The longer she hovered in that weird twilight zone without any answers, the more the questions piled up. That was the dam that kept the flood of her grief at bay.
She needed to understand what really happened. That was the only thing that would help her to put Conor to rest.
The facts were bald. The pilots reported a bird-strike as the flight climbed out of Heathrow. The recordings of their conversation with Air Traffic Control showed they weren’t remotely concerned by the incident. Once they reached 33,000 feet, they headed west under fine weather conditions. Mid-Atlantic, the satellite link showed a squall blowing up and the pilots decided to reroute slightly around the area of worst turbulence. Even then, there was still no sense of anxiety, nor even the faintest hint of unease. They had negotiated with oceanic control for a change of track and persevered. The co-pilot even cracked a joke and said ‘Goodnight.’
That was the last confirmed communication.
Kaitlin shivered, and not from the chill. That was the moment when everything changed and the mystery of Atlantic Airlines Flight 702 began to burn bright. The flight switched direction, from west to north, and headed towards Greenland. A radar station in Iceland tracked the baffling move. Could it have been to avoid the storm? It seemed unlikely that seasoned pilots would take such drastic action. The plane also descended to 20,000 feet. Another inexplicable decision.
Why? Why? Why?
And then came the garbled radio transmission. Kaitlin felt her stomach knot as sickening scenarios played out in her head. The message was recorded by air traffic control in Gander, Newfoundland, its incomprehensible nature only serving to make it more terrifying. Among the fragments of words and crackling static, one thing was clear: panic. Those experienced pilots were gripped by dread.
And then Flight 702 was gone.
No debris was found. The marine search teams swept across a wide area of the North Atlantic, tracked currents, followed the last known path, scanned with radar. Nothing. Not the slightest trace of the plane and all of those people on board.
No sign of Conor.
It was almost as though Flight 702 had never existed.
Kaitlin felt her unease shift to a cold, hard anger. If there’s one thing the authorities hate in a situation like that, it’s a vacuum. All that space for conspiracists to pour in their theories – wild ideas that could only destabilise the already struggling aviation industry. Share value under threat, jobs on the line.
The scramble to find an easily understandable explanation was almost unseemly. That and the desire to give closure to those suffering families, of course.
The Federal Aviation Authority investigation had concluded that the plane went down due to complications from the bird-strike. Other investigators said the flight had struck a flock of birds with high-altitude migration patterns. All this without a shred of evidence to back it up. Mere supposition. Apparently, that was good enough for some people. Her parents had accepted it blindly, even though she knew it had destroyed them to accept that their only son was dead.
But it wasn’t enough for Kaitlin.
The bizarre change to a northwards course; the descent to a lower flight path; the lack of any debris – all ignored.
She wasn’t a conspiracy theorist. She wasn’t clutching at straws. She was thinking rationally, sifting evidence, as she’d once done every day in class.
She wasn’t being driven by grief.
There was a truth waiting to be discovered and she wouldn’t rest until she found it.
Kaitlin felt her defiance burn bright and that accompanying surge of energy that had carried her through the last six months.
‘Let’s head back,’ she said to Amelia. ‘There are a few things I need to check.’
The thump of bass thrummed from one of the nearby rooms as they made their way along the corridor.
‘You want to bounce any ideas off me, I’m here,’ Amelia slurred. She’d finished the rest of the wine on the way over.
‘You FaceTime your folks,’ Kaitlin said. ‘I’m just going to review the Greenland data again. Maybe there was some other reason why the plane was heading that way.’
‘Don’t pull another all-nighter, Kaitlin, all right? I’m worried about you. You’re going to burn out.’ Amelia turned the key and swung open the door.
In the dark of the room, Kaitlin hovered. She held her breath and wished.
‘Go on, check the messages,’ Amelia told her. ‘If there’s anoth
er of those conspiracy nutters, we can have a laugh about their latest “theory”. There’s still an opening for “Bigfoot Did It”.’
Steeling herself, Kaitlin pulled out her phone and thumbed the number for her mailbox. There was one message waiting:
Hi. I’m … I’m calling for the Flight 702 hotline?
A long pause, but when the caller spoke again, any hesitancy had vanished.
OK. My name’s Dylan. That’s all you need to know.
Kaitlin felt her neck prickle. She sensed something in that strong, confident voice that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The rolling accent made her think of Texan wide open spaces.
You’re doing a good job. Challenging the lies they’re trying to feed us. But there’s a lot you don’t know and the truth is, you’re not going to get there on your own.
There was another pause, as if the caller were choosing his words with undue caution. Kaitlin felt her stomach knot with anticipation.
I’m willing to point you in the right direction. But if you carry on down this path, you need to know one thing: you might not be coming back.
2
The laptop screen glowed in the dark. Kaitlin hunched over it, her fingers tapping impatiently on her thigh, tense with anticipation. She’d lost track of the time, but Amelia had fallen asleep hours ago, her breathing steady, and a peaceful silence lay over the dorm.
Dylan’s phone message had been terse. Nothing in the words set him apart from the scores of other timewasters who had contacted her, but she’d felt there was something new here. Instinct, she told herself. Or perhaps, today, the day of Conor’s memorial service, she’d simply wanted some hope.
The mysterious caller had directed her to the Facebook group she’d set up alongside the hotline for anyone who might have information about Flight 702. For the most part, it was clogged with more useless theories and messages from trolls. Dylan had told her to await a direct message from him there.
So, she waited.
Just when she’d started to reach the conclusion that she’d allowed herself to be led up another dead end, the laptop dinged.
Dylan’s message contained a link and said simply:
This will take you to an encrypted app. Download it, then we can talk.
After years of lecturing from Conor about how easy it was to hack into a computer, Kaitlin knew better than to simply click on a link from an unknown sender. She checked the account he was using to message her, but there was nothing; only the anonymous grey outline for a profile picture. No personal details, no photographs. Her fingers fluttered over the keys.
You think I’m crazy? Downloading something that could be spyware or malware?
The response flashed back:
You don’t have a choice.
How do I know I can trust you?
You don’t.
Kaitlin leaned back. This felt dangerous. Dylan was luring her in. He clearly understood psychology well, knew how much she needed this; how little effort it would take to push her in whatever direction he wanted her to go in. The sensible option would have been to back off.
But Dylan was right. She didn’t have a choice.
Kaitlin clicked on the link and downloaded the app.
A few moments later, Dylan’s first message flashed:
You made the right decision.
So, tell me who you are.
The less you know about me, the better for both of us.
You sound paranoid.
Just pragmatic.
Kaitlin winced. She still wasn’t wholly sure she could trust this contact. Hints of shadowy threats could just be another way to control her.
‘Why are you helping me?’ she typed.
I want to know the truth as much as you do.
Then why aren’t you following these leads yourself?
I’m being watched.
Kaitlin felt her chest tighten as she stared at those words.
OK. Now you’re freaking me out.
Good. You should be. Here.
A phone number flashed up in a message bubble.
That’s for emergencies only. Get a burner, then send me the number. I’ll contact you if anything comes up out of the blue and we need a rapid response.
OK.
Now, I’m going to send you some files. The passenger manifest. Some basic intel.
Kaitlin felt a shiver of glee. She’d been trying to get hold of the passenger manifest from day one. If Dylan had it, he must be legit. Maybe.
The main lead I have right now is a kid abandoned at Heathrow. A Bulgarian. His mother flew from JFK with him, was supposed to get a connecting flight to Sofia, but she left the kid and flew back to New York alone.
Weird.
Exactly. There’s got to be something in that. One of those files names the mother’s sister in NYC. You should check it out.
Kaitlin sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t going to come easily, she knew that. Dylan’s information was good, but was it too good to be true? Her father would call her naive. Her mother would give her that look that sat somewhere between sad, stern and disappointed.
Was she being stupid?
Slipping in her AirPods, she scrolled through her playlists until she found one that was calm enough to keep the world at bay but wouldn’t disrupt her thoughts. In the dark, she conjured up images of Conor, happier times, kicking sand at each other at Delray Beach in Florida, sitting beside the firepit watching the stars and telling ghost stories at Halloween. Singing stupid songs in harmony. Sharing a stolen beer.
She felt her heart ache for what she’d lost. She’d do anything to put that right. That was the danger.
Kaitlin tapped her foot in frustration as she waited in the annexe to the dean’s office. A full half an hour had passed before she was summoned to the desk of the student well-being officer, an elegant woman in her late fifties with a soothing voice.
‘How are you doing, Kaitlin?’ she asked in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.
‘I just wanted to let you know I’ve been going to my therapy sessions. As requested.’ Kaitlin slid the form across the desk that Jack had signed.There was no need to mention she wouldn’t be going again.
‘The request was for your benefit, Kaitlin.’ The woman scanned the form. ‘OK. That all looks good to me. I’m glad you’re finally getting some support after your loss.’
‘Does this mean you’re not going to kick me out?’
‘We’re not hard-hearted. We take the well-being of our students very seriously and we’ll do everything we can to support you.’
No matter what she said, though, the fact was that there were minimum class attendance requirements and Kaitlin had long been failing to meet them. She wondered how long she could skate the edges of the rules before things got serious again.
On the way back to the dorm, she braced herself and checked her bank balance on her phone. How was she going to fund following Dylan’s leads? The numbers on the screen weren’t much of a surprise, but she still felt the familiar sinking dread she always felt when it came to money.
She stressed about it all the way back to her room, but after running numerous calculations through her head and factoring in as few meals as possible, she decided she could probably eke out what little she had. So long as this didn’t turn into a never-ending wild goose chase, she should be able to survive.
‘If this Dylan guy asks to meet up, don’t go alone,’ Amelia cautioned. Still in her pyjamas, she eyed Kaitlin over the rim of her coffee mug.
‘I’m not an idiot, Amelia.’
‘Well, you did download an app sent to you by someone you don’t know.’
‘This is true,’ Kaitlin conceded, shoving underwear into one of the pockets of her backpack.
The rosy dawn light gleamed at the window. She’d been up all night, reading the material Dylan had sent, but she didn’t feel remotely tired. In fact, she was buzzing with the possibilities of what could lie ahead.
&nb
sp; ‘You need to text me every day. Twice a …’
Kaitlin glanced up from her packing at Amelia’s pause. ‘What?’
Amelia slammed down her mug and ransacked a drawer, eventually pulling out a key, which she tossed onto Kaitlin’s bed.
‘What’s that?’
‘You know my dad’s got an apartment in NYC that he uses when he’s over here on business?’
‘The one he said you could stay at if you were ever out in the city and it was too late to get back here?’
‘That’s the one. You can stay there.’
Kaitlin frowned. ‘I couldn’t—’
‘You can. And you will. You’re going to be there a while, on and off, if you’re following all those leads. And, bluntly, you have zero funds to spend on hotels right now. Unless you’re planning to sleep rough, which I couldn’t possibly allow.’
‘Thank you.’ Kaitlin felt another wave of warmth for her best friend.
‘Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a penthouse on the Upper East Side or anything, just some basic rooms in the East Village. But there’s a bed and a kitchen. I’ll text you the address.’
Amelia turned away. Kaitlin knew she was trying to hide the worry she was feeling.
‘I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.’ As much as she could, anyway. After all the warnings Dylan had given, she wasn’t about to tell Amelia anything that might put her in danger, too.
‘I really hope this works out for you, hun.’ Amelia strode over and hugged her. ‘I know how much Conor meant … means … meant …’
‘It’s OK.’ Kaitlin squeezed her friend back briefly before easing herself free from the embrace. ‘I never know which tense to use, either. Which is right at the bottom of the list of things I don’t know.’
3
Passenger List Page 2